A word's worth

Dedicated to whomever treasures the spirit of literature, the arms of writers and readers as they reach out to one another in the cosmos.

The first poem I ever learned by heart was "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth. I can remember reciting about half of it in front of my 6th grade class, when all of a sudden I went blank, blacked out, and broke into tears. I'll never forget how my teacher, a lovely dark-haired spinster who was undoubtedly fraught by having encouraged my premature recital, tried to console me in the cloak room at the back of the class. "But I knew it by heart," I sobbed. "I know," she said "and next time it will be with your whole heart and soul." While I didn't understand what she meant at the time, I was relieved.

The poem has since been recharged in another place, at another time of life, when truly alone "in blissful solitude" I suddenly ran across "a host, of golden daffodils...stretch'd in never-ending line along the margin of the bay". It was on a trail along Tomales Bay, out on the Point Reyes peninsula. It was your birthday in March, C, and you were pregnant, expecting a son. A golden bouquet was gathered and given. I also ran across a herd of wild elk that same day, on that same path.

For years, there was only that one Wordsworth in my world. I had to laugh and cry the other day when I was looking for some poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and discovered that he had acquired the middlename Wordsworth on the Internet. Today, I am constantly lifting my feather duster to spare myself of the unsightly cobwebs of misspelled wads, unconjugated verbs, undeclined nouns, mixed metaphors and hence meaningless banter on the Internet. Would that I could spare others. Who are these bloggers, hanging from a summer gossamer every day, night and time of the year? Who is this Babel, this world's most indispensible networker, who calls himself a 'Poet'? Alexander Pope wrote "fools rush in where angels fear to tread" in his poetic Essay on Criticism.

In the meantime, I've become more interested in all the politically incorrect feminist writers and doers, all the spinsters toward whom Freudian thought has only served to exacerbate scorn. I'm fascinated by those who prefer the go to the show, who thrive on the stimulus of intellectual pursuit, and are easily fatigued by choppy chatter. By choppy chatter I mean the barrage of empty words, abrupt sentences, bits and pieces of broken conversation, and unanswered questions, however trivial, that often crop up around a family dinner table, as well as on the Internet. Choppy chatter is breaking dishes as opposed to bread, and all the other sounds that people make (and words people write) when they are alone in the company of others.

I am curious about the independent thinkers who for good reason defy convention. I wonder about Florence Nightingale, for example, a prolific writer in later years, who described how women of her (upper) class used to spend their days lying on their sofas and telling each other how to avoid fatigue by putting flowers into vases. Florence Nightingale chose evidently not to be a wife of noble character (Pr 31:10-31), a socialite, or a femme fatale, but rather a strong social servant with personal integrity and a non-moral conscience. As soon as we are reminded of the reality of these women, the fictitious is no longer foul but somehow fragrant. It is from this perspective that I now savor H. Wadsworth Longfellow's contributions, in that hour of misery, to the myth (excerpts from Santa Filomena):

Lo, In that hour of misery
A Lady with a Lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom
And flit from room to room.
And slow, as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow as it falls.